“Wait…” Lily says from the door. “There’s nothing here.”

I grab the shopping bag and head over to the two of them. “This is for you,” I tell Lily. She brightens when she thinks it’s the comic. But as she sifts through the bag’s contents, her face falls for the second time. “Pepper spray?”

“For protection.”

“No, she thought it was for greasing pans,” Loren retorts.

I glare.

“You’re going to treat us like idiots,” he says, “you’re going to get an idiot response back.”

Touché. “I’ll be leaving.”

“Look at that, Lil. The queen has announced her departure. Should we bow?”

“Lo,” Lily warns and gives him a sharp look, and for Lily, those don’t come often.

He shuts his mouth, which must take a great, great deal of effort.

“Go sit with your jackass brother on the couch,” I tell him. “And just so you know, I like that jackass better than you, and I’ve known him fifteen years less.” I flash Loren a dry smile. “See you tomorrow.”

Loren usually has the last word, but I slam the door behind me before he gets it. Bickering with Lo solidifies my day as a normal one. The bad days are the ones where everything is a little off. So far, so good.

* * *

I jinxed myself.

I know Connor does not believe in such things, but I know I fucking did something wrong. I said, so far, so good. And OF COURSE something decided to blow back in my face.

Scott is here.

At my office.

He just showed up while I was in the middle of rearranging my inventory into plastic tubs.  I was separating them according to seasons, trying to unearth the spring and summer collections that we’ll need to wear soon for the show. I’ve been letting my sisters wear their own clothes at certain times, just because I don’t have enough pieces for six full months, even if we wear an outfit twice. Hopefully Scott airs the footage where we’re all dressed in Calloway Couture and not Old Navy, which Lily gravitates towards.

“You work too hard,” Scott tells me, setting down a plastic bag on my white desk. Boxes and tubs line the large loft space. Besides that and my desk and a pig, there’s not much else in here. Oh, wait, there is Brett who films us.

Scott’s kindness must be a result of the camera in his face, trying to capture some footage of him being nice. Must be painful for him.

“I don’t,” I say. “The people who work hard are the ones dedicated to protecting our country, who do better by it. I just design clothes.” I snap the lid onto one of the tubs and wipe my hands on my black pleated dress, the seam touching my thighs (not good) and my collarbones (thank God). At least I have on sheer black tights.

“I brought you dinner.”

I watch him pull out two Styrofoam to-go containers, vaguely interested. I ignore my stomach that threatens to grumble on spot.

He opens the containers, and I see the lines of sushi, the little dab of wasabi and bundle of ginger. I barely hear him say the name of my favorite sushi restaurant in New York. I’m too slack-jawed that he got something right. Maybe I’ve been too harsh, too bitchy and judgmental just because he’s from California and says a few sleazy things.

I grimace as I try to come to terms with being nice too. I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “I only have one chair.” I near my desk and peer into the plastic bag, taking out chopsticks and soy sauce.

“That’s okay. You can sit on my lap.”

I glare.

“Just kidding,” he laughs. “I’ll sit on your desk.”

Fine. I settle in my rolling chair and pick the to-go box with the rainbow roll, also my favorite. Connor usually brings me dinner in the city, and the fact that he’s been replaced by Scott agitates me. “So who told you I liked sushi?” I ask him.

 As promised, he sits on half of my desk, his legs hanging close to me. “I’ve always known it’s your favorite, babe.”

I pause, my chopsticks frozen above the ginger. So he’s definitely playing into our fake old relationship. Two can play this game. “I never ate sushi with you,” I retort. “You said you hated it, and you always made me eat alone.”

His lips twitch in a cringe, which he hides very well. He sets his to-go box on his lap. “Things have changed.”

“You like sushi now?”

He eats a piece, chews and swallows. “I love sushi now.” He smiles, and I absorb his features, the dishwater blond hair that’s styled in a messy, dysfunctional way. And the light layer of scruff along his jaw that makes him look a little older than his age.

I hate that he’s not ugly. I wish he had a thousand warts and a hairy nose. Instead, he could be an actor on a daytime soap, not a producer.

“You miss me,” he suddenly says.

My eyes tighten. “Not for a second.” My phone buzzes on the desk.

Scott snatches it before I can.

“That’s incredibly rude,” I tell him as he opens my text.

He lets out a laugh. “Marilyn Monroe, Paul Newman, James Dean. Your boyfriend is so fucking weird.” He tosses the phone back to me, and I just barely catch it without dropping my chopsticks.

“Sometimes weird is better than normal,” I say. “Normal can be boring.”

He touches his chest. “I’m not boring, honey.”

Why does he have to say everything so condescendingly? “I fell asleep every time you wanted to have sex. What do you call that?”

“A personal problem.”

I roll my eyes and quickly text Connor back. Fuck. Marry. Kill. I’m more comfortable with the idea of having sex with a woman than I am with a man, as strange as that may seem. Connor will most likely pick up on this, but I don’t care. I hit send and set my phone back safely on the desk, away from Scott’s grabby fucking hands.

“I saw your mother yesterday,” he says.

“You did?” I try not to act surprised, but my heart has lodged in my throat for a second. Why would he visit my mother?

“We ate lunch and caught up. It was like old times.” He passes me a water bottle and then takes a swig of his Cherry Fizz. “She said she wished Daisy was around, that the house was too quiet without all of you girls there.”

“Stop,” I tell him, standing up and setting the sushi on the desk. It feels like fool’s food, a trap, something you give a three-headed dog before sneaking into a treasure cove.

He frowns. And I can’t tell whether it’s real or fake. Honest or deceitful. “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t know me,” I refute. I return to my tubs of clothes, but I don’t want to squat down in front of him.

“I do know you,” he lies.

I spin around and realize he’s casually leaning against the front of my desk. “Can you please leave?”

“I don’t get it. I say one thing about your mother and you throw a tantrum.”

I glance at the camera. I don’t want to vilify my mother to the nation. I don’t want to cause her that pain. She’s a good woman even if she does bad things sometimes. But the more he pokes me, the more these thoughts and feelings resurface, the more I can’t bite my tongue. That’s Connor’s specialty. He’s the river that idly passes between mountains. I’m the volcano that destroys a village.

“What is it?” he taunts, his voice anything but kind. He wears an antagonistic smile. “She didn’t buy you a diamond necklace? She forgot your eighteenth birthday?”

“My mother would never forget my birthday,” I tell him. “She’s always been there for me.”

Scott shrugs like I’m insane. Maybe I am. Maybe my feelings are irrational. Maybe I’m losing my mind with all the stresses in my life. “She was upset that she was an empty-nester. It’s normal, Rose.”

“I don’t want her to take Daisy back,” I suddenly blurt out.

Scott frowns again. “Why not? Do you have some perverse fantasy about raising her, becoming a mother because Connor won’t have kids with you?”

“Fuck you,” I curse. I grab my handbag and lift one of the tubs awkwardly in my arms. Scott doesn’t offer to carry it for me (not that I would let him). “You can see yourself out.”

“My pleasure.”

I struggle to open the door with one hand. This time, I don’t have Connor behind me to scoop up the box and help. I manage fine at first. I breeze through the door and head down the hall, breathing sporadic breaths that slide down my throat like brittle knives.

The tub drops out of my hands by the elevator. The lid cracks, and I hurriedly fold each article of clothing before placing them back inside.

I don’t want to float inside my head, but the longer I take, the more I feel the past whisper against my neck like a cold, familiar ghost. I see my oldest sister, Poppy, who grew tall before the rest of us, who was out the door, married and pregnant in practically no time at all.

When she left, my mother focused her excess attention on me, pressuring me to continue ballet, attending every practice and recital, filling my schedule with dinner dates and functions. And I wanted to make her proud. How else can you give thanks to someone who gives you everything you desire? Who showers you with things that glitter? You become someone they can gloat over; you become their greatest prize.

Connor is right. He talks of monetary values. Of benefits. Opportunity cost. There is a price that you pay growing up in luxury. You feel so undeserving of everything around you. So you find a way to be deserving of it—by being smart, by being talented and successful.

By building your own company.

With Calloway Couture, I could make my father proud—to show him that I could follow his entrepreneurial footsteps. The failure of my company feels not only like a failure of my dream, but a failure of my place in the family. Of my right to have these beautiful things.